


Tired of Running

by heeroluva



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Past Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-19 18:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7372288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky reluctantly attends Pride with Steve and has a realization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tired of Running

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barcabrony (freolia)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freolia/gifts).



Walking next to Steve who was wearing a shirt that looked like a rainbow puked on it (apparently it was called tie-dye, but Bucky called it hideous) topped with a purple cowboy hat and neon green sunglasses was a step up from Steve’s normal don’t-look-at-me getup, Bucky decided. At least it wasn’t out of place here in this endless sea of bodies decked out or painted head to toe in rainbows. 

Bucky’s own dark wash jeans and long-sleeved, grey henley were decidedly less festive (and significantly hotter, given the June weather, but he’d dealt with considerably worse), but his face wasn’t nearly as easily recognizable as Steve’s, so he’d put his foot down on wearing a similar outfit. He’d given into Steve’s request that he pull back his hair for once, and the colorful array of beads that Steve seem to take great pleasure in draping over his neck was enough. The pair of wraparound shades that Bucky favored made Steve’s jaw tighten every time he saw them, far too reminiscent of their first meeting this century, but they were a comfort (and it was bright as fuck out). 

Not so very long ago, this would have been Bucky’s worst nightmare, and as it was, it still took a monumental force of will on his part to not just bolt and seek the high ground when he was jostled by a stranger for the umteenth time. He couldn’t stop his brain from assessing the constant ebb and flow of threats around them, but he could control his impulse to act on the information he acquired.

Steve had been so hesitant and hopeful when he’d brought up attending the Pride Fest months ago, and despite Bucky’s misgivings and lack of understanding why, he hadn’t wanted to disappoint Steve. Somehow Steve had gotten it into his head that it was better for Bucky to make the choices, to take the initiative, something that annoyed Bucky to no end because most days he’d rather not go out, not interact with anything but Steve if he didn’t have to, not think of anything at all on the bad days. He didn’t understand why it mattered so much that he picked out food he liked (honestly, he’d eat anything put in front of him) or picked out his own clothes (okay, he’d admit that he didn’t want to wear the pleated pants that Steve seemed to adore). 

However, occasionally as the hours ticked by on Steve’s off days, Bucky would begin to feel trapt and slightly guilty and would inevitably suggest they go for a run or to see a movie or visit that coffee shop that had the salted caramel cinnamon rolls that Bucky really liked. Bucky had to hand it to Steve, the reverse psychology seemed to be working great, but some days he didn’t want to be the one making the choices. Some days Steve was intolerable, and Bucky would snap (“Shit, Steve. I don’t care! You pick something!”) Those days would often end with them on Steve's motorcycle, Bucky pressed against Steve’s back, arms wrapped loosely around Steve’s waist, as he wove in and out of New York City traffic with no destination in mind. 

Today it was nice to let Steve take the lead, and Bucky followed Steve from stall to stall, holding the growing collection of papers and plastic junk that Steve acquired and obediently dropping his head to receive another set of colorful beads to add to his growing collection.

Knowing that same sex relationships were legal these days was one thing, but seeing people be so brazenly open about it, so carefree and happy, was a totally different experience. 

Bucky fought the urge to stumble when the memory hit him, playing out behind his eyes, of him yelling at Donny and John one day after catching them necking in the alley behind their building (not because it was wrong, okay, he hadn’t thought it was right exactly, but it wasn’t his place to judge, and he knew enough to understand that most people didn’t take kindly to such things), telling them how stupid they were, to keep it behind closed doors where it was safer.

In another flash, John was crying in his arms over Donny’s hospital bed. Steve had stood silent and seething beside them because the police had done nothing, turned a blind eye because they were fairies. When Bucky had returned home late that night to their apartment, clothes torn and bloody, face and knuckles swollen, Steve hadn’t asked what he’d done, just given him a nod and helped clean the stains from his clothes. 

But the world had changed, and it wasn’t like that anymore, not usually.

Hesitantly, Bucky reached out his gloved hand and curled his fingers over Steve’s.

Steve practically tripped over his feet in surprise, his head tilting down to look at their joined hands before it jerked up to Bucky’s face.

Bucky could see the question forming on Steve’s tongue, the “are you okay?” and shot Steve a withering look. Don't say it, Stevie, just don't say anything, he willed. Okay was relative, and if Steve asked, Bucky wasn’t sure if he could say yes. 

Steve studied him for a long moment before a painfully wide grin stretched across his face, his hand squeezing Bucky’s tightly.

Bucky didn’t need x-ray vision to know that there were tears in Steve’s eyes, the happy kind. “Sap,” Bucky teased with a small smile.

“Takes one to know one,” Steve returned, closing the space between them to brush a kiss across Bucky’s unsuspecting lips.

Bucky jerked back, startled, looking around wildly for a moment before realizing that no one was paying them any attention, well, aside from a few annoyed glances because they’d stopped in the middle of the crowd.

Bucky hadn’t really understood the point of Pride, why people felt like they had to flaunt it, why they couldn’t keep such things behind closed doors where it was safer. He’d always tried to keep Steve safe, even from himself, and this seemed to be no different.

They hadn’t been this, them, together, before his fall from the train, not that Bucky could remember and not that Steve would admit. The potential had been there, but Bucky had known the dangers, and it hadn’t been a risk he was willing to take, not for himself and certainly not for Steve. 

It hadn’t been a conscious decision, hadn’t been much more than the need to know that Steve was alive after Bucky awoke from a nightmare, fist wrapped around Steve’s neck. He hadn’t meant to kiss him, hadn’t planned on the desperate sex that followed, the knowledge that they were both alive, both here and real. 

Then it kept happening, Bucky finding himself standing outside Steve’s door in the middle of the night for what seemed like hours, until the door finally opened and a tired Steve would usher him into bed with him. They never talked about it, not really, not outside of the Steve’s stammering, “You know you don’t have to--” and Bucky had rolled his eyes and kissed him before showing him exactly how much he was exactly where he wanted to be right there on the kitchen island. 

But now Bucky was starting to see the why of it, that as much as Steve was his and he was Steve’s, it didn’t have to be that way only in their shared apartment. Him and Steve, they’d always been tactile, and when Steve was hesitant to initiate it, Bucky would press himself against Steve’s side on the couch, press into his space. It was different outside the apartment, too many unknowns making Bucky hesitate. Bucky had plenty of reasons to hide, plenty of things he wanted to, needed to hide, both from himself and the world at large, but Steve deserved better than that, didn’t deserve to be relegated to some sort of dirty secret behind closed doors. 

Bucky wasn’t ashamed of his feelings (often confused and uncertain, hesitant and slightly scared, but never ashamed), of what they had. Perhaps it was time for him to make his own choices and be the judge of what was safe or not. 

Pressing up against Steve’s side, Bucky tugged Steve’s arm up around his shoulder, turning his head to breath in Steve’s scent. Like this he could almost relax, could almost ignore the press of the crowd around him. 

A weakness, a part of his mind screamed, a distraction. Danger. Run away. Hide before they see. 

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice was soft and questioning, hesitant and shocked and pleased all at once. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Bucky shook his head, blocking out everything but the feel of Steve. He fought the urge to tug at the tie holding his hair back, wanting to hide behind the fall of it. 

It was Bucky’s turn to kiss Steve, firm and anything but shy. “I’m good. We’re good.” Mostly. He was getting there. 

Bucky was tired of running. At Steve’s side was exactly where he wanted to be.


End file.
